Three Times Molly Hooper was Rescued
by darthsydious
Summary: Just a series of three one-shots. Not necessarily related. Sherlolly if you squint. John/Molly bff's and Mycroft being awesome.
1. Mycroft Holmes

If you asked Molly Hooper what her most memorable moment of the past year had been, it would be the time Mycroft Holmes came to her rescue. Not John, whom she would have expected without a doubt, nor Sherlock Holmes (equally so), but Mycroft. The one with his hands in all the governmental pies so to speak and who hated leg-work and therefore sent his little brother on all his unwanted errands. Mycroft Holmes, who was never seen without a starched collar and a pressed suit, an umbrella firmly grasped in hand. He was a posh who disliked dirt and grime and almost always wore a permanent scowl. Molly was fairly certain he could arrest her simply because he didn't like her. Or so she thought.

It was bleak and dreary outside St. Barts that cold February evening, Molly simply wanted to get to her flat and have a hot bath. She didn't worry too often about having to walk home (who could afford cabs these days?) it was two in the morning, nobody noticed the little pathologist scurrying through the ever-growing snow storm. Not until a man grabbed her by the ponytail, yanking her hard onto her back. She felt the air knocked out of her and she gasped, trying to catch a breath enough to scream. She felt herself pulled up, dragged out of the light of the streets, into the abandoned car-park.

"No, no-" Molly croaked, her legs kicking furiously, trying to trip her attacker. Finding purchase she managed to elbow him in the gut, gaining distance as he doubled over, but he proved to have the upper hand. She felt her head strike something, did he trip her, or had he forced her into the wall? She didn't know. She saw the world blur and felt something sticky trickling down her face. She was aware that she was crying, hands fumbling clumsily to keep the man away from her. She'd flung her purse onto the sidewalk as he grabbed her, thinking he was after her wallet. Just as she felt hands on her skirt, the man jerked back, a soft gurgle escaping his lips. Flattened against the freezing cement wall, Molly stared as her attacker dropped to his knees, groaning. Behind him stood a thin, tall, unmistakably posh man brandishing what she had always assumed to be a harmless umbrella. The villain made to stand and face his attacker, but Mycroft struck the back of the villain's head with such force that it ended any altercation before it began.

"Miss Hooper," said the elder Holmes, somewhat winded, though trying rather hard not to show it. He let out a decisive gust of breath. She stared at him, watching him slide the rapier back into the sheath that apparently doubled as an umbrella. He stepped over her attacker quite easily. "Hasn't anyone told you it's dangerous to walk these streets at night? I would have thought your acquaintance with my baby brother would have been enough for you to call a cab, regardless of the expense."

"That's not an umbrella," she managed dumbly. She peeled herself from the wall; Mycroft set the tip of the umbrella down, both hands resting on the bamboo handle. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes, I think I can see myself home now," her knees wobbled and she felt him catch her. She cleared her throat, trying to smooth down her hair. He coughed, glancing at her skirt, and then at the ground. Her hands shook, fumbling and clumsy as she tried to straighten her skirt and blouse. She was suddenly shocked to see she'd lost a substantial amount of buttons, good heavens; she'd just flashed Mycroft Holmes- good grief! She tried to close her blouse as best she could. Perhaps she was concussed, everything seemed to not want to work properly, her feet scuffed the floor as she tried to turn around and fix her clothes. Suddenly she felt a weight draped over her shoulders, and she turned to see Mycroft placing his overcoat on her.

"My car is here; I will see you to Baker Street. I believe Doctor Watson should have a look at that."

"I'll bleed on it," she murmured, still looking at his overcoat on her small frame. He shrugged.

"Don't concern yourself with it. If Sherlock knew his favorite pathologist was exposed in public and I had not done anything to prevent it I'd never hear the end of it."

Mycroft gave his arm, and did not comment when she stumbled. He helped her into the car, retrieved her discarded purse and then directed the driver where to take them.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, after he'd given his kerchief to wipe her face. He didn't answer her, so she let the question go unanswered. Perhaps he felt it his duty to look after Sherlock's acquaintances.

The car pulled up outside 221b Baker Street and Mycroft stepped out, helping her after him.

"In answer to your question," he poked the doorbell with the tip of his umbrella, ringing it four times at three second increments. "You saved my brother's life. For that you have my eternal thanks." He smiled at her, and Molly had the suspicion he was not used to smiling with real meaning behind it. It came off as eerie and a little wicked. Footsteps on the stairs within could be heard, the hall light flicked on. The inner door, and finally the outer door opened, and John stood there in his pyjamas. He gaped, blinking at Mycroft and then Molly, who seemed barely able to keep herself upright, not to mention the blood trickling down her cheek.

"Oh my God, Molly! What happened?!"

"Man attacked me, John," her speech was slurring more. "Mycroft helped," she paused, frowning. "Helped me I mean, not man who attacked me,"

"I'm afraid Miss Hooper was struck over the head, she'll need to be looked after. I trust you can take care of that, Doctor Watson?" John was already pulling her inside, "Goodnight, Miss Hooper," Mycroft called, already heading back to the car leaving John to wonder as he tended to Molly.

Sherlock of course knew right away who had saved Molly and deposited her at 221b that evening after just one look at Molly (if the overcoat was not enough of an indication). He confronted his brother about it, but Mycroft only smiled at his baby brother, confessing he had no idea what Sherlock was talking about. Mycroft smiled to himself. Sherlock would know of course that he had CCTV feeds on all of his acquaintances and friends. Why Mycroft had stepped in at that moment, when his driver easily could have overpowered Molly Hooper's attacker…that was one to puzzle over. Perhaps Mycroft liked to play the hero, just once in a while. Perhaps he felt he owed Miss Hooper some kind of debt for her services to his brother. Whatever the reason, Mycroft found himself fighting the urge to smile as the car pulled away from 221b Baker Street.


	2. Sherlock Holmes

People who wanted to send messages to Sherlock Holmes apparently had not yet heard of the telephone, the mail carriers, or his blog. This man called Sebastian, (a stupid name Molly decided, as she writhed against the handcuffs that bound her) clearly felt she was someone of importance, and decided that stealing her out of her flat in the dead of night and driving her to some frigid and abandoned location was the best way to send Sherlock Holmes a message. The only thing Molly could figure her being kidnapped would accomplish would be to make it harder for Sherlock to get his hands on the feet he'd been pestering her about. Why else was she being carted off to who knows where? Ever since Sherlock returned after the Reichenbach case, he'd gone about his old habits, bursting into the lab whenever he pleased, and stupid, silly, insipid Molly Hooper couldn't say no to him. She was glad he was safe again; glad she was able to help him, glad to be needed, truly needed by him, if only for a short while. She hadn't dared hold out even a glimmer of hope Sherlock would change how he felt about her after he returned to London. So far, she'd been proven right in her assumptions that he'd treat her no differently than before. She couldn't blame the others for being mad at her. They all kept their distance, though they did accept her tearful apologies, some more grudgingly than others.

She sat, accepting what would inevitably come, deciding she deserved it. She'd done the world a good deed by helping Sherlock Holmes, but she'd lied and lost all of her friends in the process. She almost laughed at that. Is that what they were to her? She didn't even really know all of them. She'd known John best, but even so, once in a while texts and apologies for Sherlock's rudeness does not exactly a friendship make. She knew Greg and his team only through their work and when it brought them down to the morgue. No. Molly Hooper did not have any friends. She felt another blow across her face, this time she stopped resisting, accepting them as they came.

"I want you to look nice when he comes," Moran said, stepping back for a breather. "You're not the Doctor, but you'll do, you'll do."

"He won't come," Molly said rather decidedly. Moran laughed.

"Of course he will. He comes for his friends. You're the one Moriarty forgot, he underestimated you. I didn't. Neither did Sherlock Holmes."

"He doesn't care about me," Molly shrugged. "I was just there at the right time, he would've accepted anyone's help, Lestrade, even Anderson…" she almost laughed at that. She felt consciousness slip away from her and she felt her head nod. Cold water was flung on her and she came to, sputtering and gasping. "He won't come," she repeated as Moran approached her, setting the bucket down. "I don't count, I'm just the pathologist." Moran studied her for a moment, arms crossed. In a little while he left her and she bowed her head, wishing the cold ache in her gut was due to the water, not because she felt the truth in her words.

She drifted in-between sleep and awake, sometimes Moran was sitting across from her, other times she was left alone in the drafty, abandoned warehouse. It wasn't as if she could get free anyway. Lack of food made her weak, Moran only gave her a few swallows of water a day, apparently believing Sherlock was coming for her. She only repeated over and over that he wasn't coming and Moran was wasting his time. She stopped testing the strength of the cuffs, stopped trying to ease the pain in her back. She didn't know how long she'd been there, three days or maybe it was five. There wasn't much light, and she couldn't gauge the time of day in between the cracks in the walls. She awoke shivering, as she often did, wondering how long she'd been asleep this time. A shadow was behind her, fiddling with her cuffs. There were hushed voices; she couldn't hear what they were saying.

"Won't come," she murmured, almost numb. She blinked, finding her line of vision was greatly diminished, her eyes were swollen almost shut. That was interesting. "He won't come," she felt her arms swing forward to her sides. The ache in her shoulders was tremendous.

"She can't walk, my God, what has he done to you?" that voice was not Moran's, it was warmer, kinder, softer. It sounded like John. That was silly though. What would John Watson be doing in an abandoned factory? The other voice that was not like John's, was near her now, holding her hands and rubbing them, breathing on them.

"Molly, look at me, can you move?"

"Let me take care of her Sherlock," said the voice like John's.

"I would not trust her to anyone but you." There was a pleasant weight draped over her lap. She felt herself lifted up, she gasped, a sob escaped her as her broken legs were moved. Did Moran have henchmen? Were they carrying her to her grave? Did they think she was dead?

"M'not dead," she murmured.

"Thank God you're not," said the man carrying her. Their steps were hurried, more voices surrounded them, and suddenly blinding lights were in her face.

"Molly! Molly!" someone was gasping, that sounded like Greg. "What's he done to you?" their voices were so sad, all of them surrounding her, trying to hold her hands, the person carrying her pushed through them, setting her down in the back of a car. The engine started, and she felt she was being laid down on the backseat. The car was warm, deliciously warm. Someone was holding her feet, someone else was trying to pry open her swollen eyes to look at her pupils.

"Can you focus on me, try and open your eyes Molly,"

"Who is there?" she asked softly.

John looked at Sherlock, and he looked back, both shocked and terribly hurt by her words. Molly didn't know. She never even thought they would come for her. Guilt plagued them, and they felt deeply in their hearts the need to make things right.

"It's John," the doctor said at last. "Sherlock found you; we've been looking for you for almost a week now." Molly took a shuddering breath, tears leaking out the corners of her swollen eyes.

"But…but I don't count…" John opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Sherlock opened his.

"You do count, Molly Hooper, more than you could possibly know." John looked over at his friend, Molly's feet under his arms, trying to get the feeling back in them. He was staring at Molly as if somehow willing her to understand how much she was cared for.

When she awoke properly, she was lying down in a very comfortable bed, and she was actually warm. The sheets weren't very soft, so she wasn't at home, and there was an annoying '_beep…beep…beep'_ coming from the left of her. She turned her head to the side, realizing it was a heart monitor. There was an IV in her arm, and wires poking out of the hospital gown she wore. Several bouquets of flowers sat on the window sill. In the chair beside her, knees drawn up to their chest, sat Sherlock Holmes, his hands steepled over his mouth. Hearing her stir, he opened his eyes. Immediately he was on his feet,

"Do you need John? Shall I fetch a nurse? Are you hungry?"

"Water," she managed,

"You need to make water-"

"No, I'm thirsty," she said, this time smiling. Sherlock's features relaxed. Water. Yes. That was something he could help with. He poured her a glass, adjusting her bed so she was propped up. Helping her drink, he wiped up any that dribbled from the cup. She was embarrassed. "Can't even drink properly," she murmured.

"Understandable since your jaw was fractured," he said. "Do you wish to see your chart?"

"I don't think I could read it properly," she said. "You can read it to me, if you like."

"I should let John," Sherlock said, "That is if you can wait a few minutes, he went down for a coffee. He's refused to let anyone else treat you, wisely enough. No one else would be competent enough." She fiddled with the sheets.

"Why did you come for me?" he turned and looked at her. He folded his hands behind his back and shut his eyes, as if he were reciting a prepared speech in his head. She braced herself for whatever callous thing he was about to say. When he opened his eyes, he turned to face her.

"I owe you an apology, Molly. I have been informed by several people, John being the most forceful, he came close to breaking my nose, mind you, that I have treated you rather unlike a friend. For that, I am truly sorry," he paused, searching for words. "I'm not accustomed to having friends; it took me ages simply to admit John was my friend."

"It's alright,"

"No, it's not," he interrupted her. "I didn't need John threatening me to reaffirm what I already knew, that I have treated you badly, and I _am_ truly sorry. You _do_ count, Molly, and if you wish it, I shall tell you so every day, and remind you of how I do value you, I greatly esteem you and all you've done for me. You've saved my life and for that I am eternally grateful. There is little I would not do for you." At this, he smiled, genuinely smiled at her. With that, he bent, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

She was released from the hospital and John and Sherlock both took it upon themselves to bring her to 221b, claiming she still needed to be looked after. It wasn't a lie. Her legs had been broken and she couldn't take care of herself in such a condition. John did suspect ulterior motives as Sherlock beamed as Molly settled into the cushions of the sofa, her cat Toby purring noisily on her lap.

"Sherlock if this is just a roundabout way of trying to get on her good side-"

"Oh for pity's sake, John. I told you we sorted it all out. Haven't you noticed?"

"I've noticed you being eerily nice to her, its worrying Greg."

"Let him worry," Sherlock said with a careless shrug.

"Sherlock," John said warningly.

"John," he turned back to the doctor. "If my attitude is different towards Molly, that's because it is, I am treating her as she deserves to be treated."

Sometimes, when Sherlock wanted to, he could be a very, very good man. Sometimes he could be an idiot. When it came to Molly Hooper, he was often both, but he always remembered to thank her, and once a year he slipped her a card, reminding her that that particular day she saved his life and proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that she had always counted and always would.


	3. John Watson

"You think this is a game?"

"No, I don't, and would you keep your voice down?" Molly hissed at Tom.

"Don't tell me to keep my voice down!"

"Shh!"

"Geeze, Molly, if you weren't ever sure, why didn't you say anything?"

"Because-" she glanced around the pub, wishing against wishing that nobody they knew would walk in. "I just thought…I don't know, maybe I could get used to the idea, you're a good man, but I just got thinking last night, what if I never feel that way, what if we both end up miserable? How much worse would it be-" Tom slammed his hands on the table and Molly stopped talking, startled by this change in him.

"Six months we've been engaged, we're two bloody weeks from the wedding and you call it off, do you have _any_ idea-" he broke off, shaking his head.

"If it's the expense you're worried about, I'll pay for it!" Molly snapped back, trying to keep her voice and emotions in check (sadly failing). "Tom I thought you'd rather it be this way, you must have seen-"

"No, no, no I did not see. I thought you were happy, were you lying to me during the whole relationship or was there any point in our time together you genuinely did not pity me?"

"I never said I felt sorry for you! And I never lied! I only said-"

"Geeze what's my family going to say, they're gonna have a right bloody time with this, I can't even- geeze Molly, why now?! Couldn't you have waited until after the wedding, after a few months?"

"It seems to me you're more concerned with how you look than how you feel," Molly said. She slid the ring off, setting it on the table between their plates. She dug through her purse. "Here, that's my half of the tab," she stood up, shrugging into her coat. "I _am_ sorry, Tom, and for what it's worth, I did think it could work between us, but I can't keep thinking about the 'what-if's', married to someone else. That's not fair to anyone." Zipping up her coat, she stuffed her hands in her pockets, digging out her mittens. "Look, I'll- I'll make the calls, I'll take care of everything, don't worry about the expense or-"

"I can do some of it," Tom started.

"No I can do it. I called it off, so I'll be responsible." She said and he finally nodded. "Take care,"

"Yep." He nodded, pulling out his own wallet and waving over the waitress. Before she had a chance to change her mind, Molly headed for the exit, pushing through the crowded entry and out into the cold air.

What was she thinking? Throwing away a perfectly good man like Tom? She knew her reasons, and her gut told her she was right. Her emotional half berated her, now she was sure to be a spinster. She'd work in the morgue for the rest of her life, and then she'd die of old age with a million cats.

Ok not a million. But probably five at any rate. She needed to stop volunteering at the animal shelter before she became a cat lady.

Still. At least Tom took the news and accepted it. His sudden anger had startled her. He was such a calm person, never really getting angry. Maybe he'd never been dumped before. Good grief, that was an awful thought. She climbed the steps to her flat, sighing tiredly. In the morning, hopefully, things would look better.

The weeks past and she made the necessary calls, cancelling the reception hall and church, returning the dress (which she was never really sure of anyway). Flowers were sent back, hair combs, shoes and jewelry were returned and refunded. All the while, Tom kept texting her, and that was what was driving Molly batty. She could accept the somewhat humiliating ordeal of cancelling a wedding and dealing with the sympathetic looks and "Well it's a good thing you cancelled before you found out too late!" comments. She could deal with Sherlock staring, wide-eyed and looking shocked at her before fairly skipping out of the lab, blustering about an unsolved case (she'd find time to talk with him properly later). But the constant array of texts at all hours of the day and night bothered Molly the most.

"_Are you sure this is what you want?_

_Tom"_

"_Yes._

_MH" _

"_Our song is playing at the pub, remember it? _

_Tom."_

"_Yes I remember._

_MH" _

"_I miss you._

_Tom"_

She didn't know how to respond to that one. She didn't miss Tom. Not really. She liked his family, liked that they were all so kind and happy and…normal. But Molly realized normal didn't exactly work for her. She liked her not-so-average job. She liked to talk about it. No one in Tom's family really understood why she was a pathologist, Tom included. She'd try and explain how she felt, figuring out a mysterious cause of death, the relief in finding out, and being able to tell the family, but they would all get a sort of fixed smile on their faces, trying to nod and look interested.

That wasn't the only reason she broke it off with Tom of course, nor even the first one. She still had feelings for Sherlock, and whether she was ready to face them or not, she couldn't rightfully marry someone else that she didn't love.

"_You never texted me back._

_Tom"_

"_I didn't know how to reply, please stop texting me Tom._

_MH"_

"_Why? Does it make you uncomfortable? _

_Do I remind you of something you did wrong?_

_Tom"_

"_I've done nothing wrong. Please stop trying to call._

_MH"_

"_I just miss you is all. Or am I not allowed to feel now?_

_Tom"_

"_You're allowed to feel, just stop texting me. Stop calling me, _

_stop leaving notes for me at work, stop delivering flowers. Please let me be._

_MH_

He did, for a while. Still, as the week drew to a close, she'd find anonymous notes slid under her office door. She stopped opening them. The night before her would-be wedding, her phone wouldn't stop ringing with text alerts.

"_Tomorrow would be the day we'd be getting married._

_Tom"_

"_Did you get my notes? _

_Tom"_

"_I made sure to deliver them myself._

_Tom" _

"_I didn't do this for my other girlfriends, you know._

_Tom."_

"_If the wedding was still on, you realize we'd be having _

_our stag and hen parties. All our friends would be trying to _

_keep us from texting each other. _

_Tom"_

"_Why aren't you responding? _

_Tom"_

"_Molly?_

_Tom"_

Stuffing her mobile into the couch cushions, she turned the television volume up, Toby came around, purring. She stroked his thick fur. Between the cushions, she could see the screen of her phone light up.

"Oh for bloody-" she took the phone, shutting it off. "Leave me alone!" burying her face in Toby's neck she sighed heavily, tears filling her eyes.

The date of the called-off wedding came, and her phone remained blessedly silent, even after she turned it back on. Through some grand, hysterical confusion, she couldn't get hold of the bakery and cancel the cake. Somehow, wires were crossed and she ended up with a three tiered cake delivered to her flat. No refunds and they certainly weren't taking the giant confection back.

"Oh Hell," she grumbled and scribbled out a check to the two men who'd delivered it. She'd just pack cake in her lunch for the next eight weeks. Maybe she could freeze it.

"Molly," she looked up, startled to see Tom in the open doorway.

"Tom! Uh…what…are you doing here?"

"Is that the cake?" he stepped into her open doorway.

"Yes, clearly. Bakery never got my message."

"It looks nice."

"What do you want, Tom?"

"I just want to talk. You weren't answering my texts and I just thought-"

"No, no, please, Tom, don't try and fix this, please," she pleaded.

"All I'm trying to do is make this work!"

"There's nothing to make work, I called off the wedding, for a legitimate reason!" Molly felt she was becoming hysterical and at this point she didn't care. "It wouldn't be fair, to either of us, for me to agree to be your wife, knowing I felt the way I do about another man. I couldn't do that to anyone!"

"You didn't even give me a chance!"

"This isn't about a chance, I don't love you!" Molly clapped her hands over her mouth. Tom stepped back, hurt on his face. "I- I didn't mean it like that, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have just blurted it out-"

"So…you were just…dragging me along? Waiting for something better?"

"That's not what I said-"

"I'm just as good as any other man," he growled out.

"Tom," she felt herself backing up, realizing he was advancing, perhaps he didn't know he was, but it frightened her.

"Trouble?" John stood in the doorway. Tom looked startled; he quickly put on a smile.

"No, no trouble Doctor Watson. Molly and I were having a private conversation, if you'll excuse us."

"I'm afraid molly can't, she's having breakfast with Mary and I. Right now, remember Molly? I said we'd pick you up."

Molly had no idea what he was talking about but she went along with it, nodding.

"She's not going anywhere, and neither am I."

"You were leaving," John answered brusquely. "Right now, in fact."

"This doesn't concern you,"

"Mm, think it does,"

"No, it doesn't," the half-way pleasant smile was gone from Tom's face, but it didn't seem to worry John.

"Tom, just, please go-"

"Shut up!" he barked at her and Molly, before she could stop herself shrank back. He glared at the doctor. "Fine, if you won't go, then we will, come on, Molly."

"No, Tom don't," she tried to pull out of his grasp.

"Molly!"

"You're hurting me!"

"Ok, time's up," John unfolded his arms, taking Tom by the shirt collar and forcefully dragging him from the flat, pushing him down the stairs.

"You haven't got any right-" Tom struggled as John held him firmly by the shirt, flagging down a cab as he did so.

"I think I do," he answered. A cab slowed to a stop, he opened the door and pushed him in.

"I'm going to call the police!"

"Who do you think they'll believe?"

"You think you've got the Yard by the tail, just because you're friends with Sherlock Holmes, well you can tell him from me he doesn't."

"I will," John chuckled.

"And I won't stop calling Molly, I'll do as I please and you can tell her to keep expecting to hear from me because nobody will-"

There were a few times John Watson was perfectly happy to clock a man. Once, when someone insulted his mother. A second time, when Sherlock came back. The third time when Molly's ex-fiancé wouldn't leave her alone and continued to threaten her. Call him a sucker for rescuing damsels in distress. Call him old-fashioned. Call him whatever you like, Molly was one of his closest friends, and he was quite sure Sherlock would have approved. He shut the cab door, tapping on the window and it pulled away from the curb, John shaking his hand, inspecting his knuckles. He looked up to see Molly in her doorway, wide-eyed, then over to Sherlock and Mary, both carrying boxes of the breakfast Mary had made to surprise Molly that morning.

"I'd clap for you, but Mary would shoot me if I dropped the pudding." Sherlock said finally.

"Well, um, shall we go in?" Mary asked, fairly beaming at her husband and Molly quickly held the door open for them, letting them through.

While Sherlock and Mary busied themselves, setting up plates and dishes, Molly approached John.

"Thank you for that, really, I don't know what might've happened if you hadn't come when you did." He smiled at her.

"It was Sherlock who sent me along ahead of him," he said. "But I'm sure he would've done the same."

"I would've tossed him out the window, window boxes be damned." Sherlock said. "Your way was efficient too, I suppose."

"Shut up, Sherlock." John retorted. Molly smiled at her friends, feeling the tension between her shoulders finally slip away. Sherlock pulled a chair for her, and John began to pass plates around. Mary squeezed her hand, and Molly knew she'd be regaling the whole morning's events to them over breakfast.


	4. And One Time When Molly Rescued Herself

Molly was uncomfortable. She was crammed in the back of a large wardrobe. Sherlock hung on a coat hook by the ropes binding his wrists; he balanced his feet on an old shoe-shine kit, alleviating the strain on his wrists and shoulders. John was bound and gagged, rather like a calf, and Molly did find herself almost giggling at that. He looked silly on his back, hands and ankles tied together. Molly, having been deemed the least harmless, was set in the cupboard on her backside; ankles bound together, wrists behind her back.

"Well. This is the most ridiculous predicament I've been in thus far." Sherlock muttered.

"I would have thought the incident in Wapping was worse," Molly said, wriggling her fingers. She shimmied, frowning at the neckline of her gown. Of course they'd be sleuthing at a formal event. Of course she'd have to worn the dress Mary said she should wear because Sherlock liked the color. Of course that bloody dress had to be strapless and long. She couldn't very well run in this!

"Footsteps." Sherlock said, trying to shake the blindfold from his eyes.

"They're leaving," Molly answered, still twisting her wrists back and forth. "Oh! Maybe…" she murmured, sliding the circle of her arms under her bum, she shimmied until they were hooked under her knees. "Oh buggar this," she grumbled. Sherlock succeeded in getting the blindfold off just in time to see Molly topple onto her side, sitting on her tied wrists. She let a string of curses loose as she felt the fabric of her dress and corset straining on her side, pinching.

"Language, Molly,"

"Shut up, Sherlock," John and Molly both said, John somewhat muffled by the rag stuffed in his mouth. She wriggled around, grunting until she finally succeeded in getting her arms back behind her.

"Well that won't work," she grumbled.

"Molly can you hear a guard out there?"

"If there were," Molly shimmied along the floor on her bum to see under the door. "They'd have told us to shut up by now." She peered through the crack on the floor. "No, nobody's there."

"There's one on the outer door though," John said, having spit out the gag. "You couldn't see him Sherlock."

"Hm."

Molly got to her feet with no degree of sophistication whatsoever. Hobbling over to the bench where John had been set, she managed to kneel down, inching forward, peering at the back panel.

"Looking for Narnia?" John asked

"You laugh; these old wardrobes have false backs."

"And lead us directly into a wall, brilliant, Molly, do remind me to tell Lestrade to phone you the next time we're in search of a fawn carrying groceries," Sherlock grumbled.

"These old wardrobes have false panels, because they're placed in front of hidden doors you idiot," Molly snapped.

"Oh please,"

"Really?" John seemed interested at least.

"Didn't you wonder why the bottom of the wardrobe outside doesn't match the inside?

"We stepped over, not up to get in." John realized.

"Nobody keeps a wardrobe with a false bottom unless they're hiding something," Sherlock finished.

"There are hooks, but no coats. There's a bench for putting shoes on, but no shoes. And I can feel a draft back here," Molly said from the bench.

"In that dress, I'm sure," Sherlock replied icily.

"I wore it for you!" she answered tartly, and Sherlock blinked, almost doing a double take.

"Me?"

"Yes you, you moron," Molly huffed. "See if I try and look nice for you again," She glared at him before sitting back on her knees. "I can't do anything with my hands behind my back, John, can you reach my hair comb?"

"Think so, move closer." She bent over his hands, and he managed to grasp the edge of the fancy comb from her hair and drop it into her hand. Molly gritted her teeth as she jimmied the sharp end of the comb between her wrists and the zip ties. She struggled for a few moments, sawing carefully at it before she felt the plastic give away and she held up her bare wrists, triumphant. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. She fiddled with the ties at her ankles until she managed to break them as well. Getting to her feet, she went to the back panel,

"Uh, Molly,"

"Hm."

"How about getting us out?" John asked.

"I will in a minute,"

"They could come back in a minute!"

"Most definitely," Molly said. She stood up on the bench, running her hand along the top of the wardrobe.

"Your time spent with Sherlock has done you no favors."

The outer door beyond the wardrobe creaked and all three within froze.

"_I heard a thump-"_ said one of the guards. Molly sat back down on the floor, arms behind her back, hiding her legs under her long hem. _"You go ahead, I'm gonna check on them."_

The doors to the wardrobe opened, beyond the guard Molly could see the outer door was shut.

"Hey!" the guard exclaimed, seeing the broken zip ties on the floor. Molly lunged, grabbing for the man's legs, tripping him. He fell with a 'thud' onto his back, head knocking against the open door. For a moment, no one moved. Poking her head out of the wardrobe, Molly looked around, and then dragged the guard inside, taking the handcuffs on his belt.

"He should be out for a while," she said, checking his pulse.

"Why'd you shut the door, we can get out the front way," John said.

"I can't sneak in this dress, and I am not running around in my slip and pants."

"Pity," Sherlock muttered.

"What?"

"What?"

"Still tied up Molly," John said, and she reached for the ties.

"Make sure he can't get loose, just in case he comes to," she murmured, looking around the wardrobe. "If you wanted to conceal a switch, where would you hide it?"

"That's assuming there is a switch, or even a passage beyond," Sherlock replied.

"Under the bench?" John asked, he felt along the lip of it, and then shook his head. "No."

"The wood of this wardrobe, what's it made of?" Molly asked.

"I'm still tied up," Sherlock ignored her question.

"Looks like mahogany,"

"Hm, mid century?"

"Going by the carvings on the doors? Yeah."

"Still. Tied."

"Shh. Thinking," Molly waved at him. Sherlock looked from her to John, who wasn't even trying to hide his smile.

"Losing circulation in my hands Molly,"

"Hm."

"Won't be able to play the violin, Molly,"

"Concentrating."

"Won't be able to feed Toby, Molly."  
"You don't feed him anyway." Sherlock blew at the curls hanging in his eyes. Time for a different tactic. He affixed a pleasant smile on his face.

"That dress is very pretty on you-"

"Don't even start that," she held up a hand. Sherlock huffed. John leaned back against the wall, grinning. Flattery wouldn't work. Sympathy wouldn't work. He watched Molly study the walls and bench seat, an idea finally clicking in his head.

"Please." He muttered. She straightened.

"What was that?" she looked back at him, and John raised his eyebrows.

"Please untie me." Molly smiled and climbed onto the bench, reaching the hook where his wrists were bound. This one was not polished black like the others; it looked worn down, as if someone had used it frequently. But who uses a hook in an empty wardrobe?

"Oh! Brilliant!" she pulled hard on his wrists

"Ow!" the hook pulled from the wall and the panel behind the bench clicked, popping away from the wall. Sherlock tumbled to his knees with a grunt, rubbing his wrists.

"How'd you know that was there?" he asked.

"The outside doesn't match the inside," she said cheerfully. John shook his head.

"You and your Doctor Who references."

"Actually my dad was a carpenter. I used to hang around with him on his jobs." She said, sliding the back panel open. Behind was indeed a narrow passage.

"Where's this lead?" John asked as they all bent to peer through the opening.

"Looks like an old service shaft, most probably for generators." Sherlock said. He hitched up his trousers, stepped onto the bench and through the opening, turning to assist Molly.

"Last time I listen to your wife when it comes to fashion," Molly said to John as she tried to step onto the bench in the restricting skirt. The gown that seemed so elegant at the start of the evening (hugging her knees and flaring out beneath) now seemed the most ridiculous style she'd ever heard of. She picked up handfuls of the gown so she could climb up and out.

"Don't make promises nobody wants you to keep," Sherlock said as John climbed through.

"What?"

"What?"

The passage was cold and damp, but otherwise still sound, if abandoned for some time. It lead them down under the great house and out into an alley.

"Where are we?"

"At least six blocks down from the house, oh, this is ideal!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"I accept compliments," Molly said, quite proudly. She shivered in the cold January air and Sherlock shed his Belstaff, placing it over her shoulders.

"For what?" he asked, pulling out his mobile and texting Greg the go-ahead to make the arrest.

"For getting us out, obviously."

"I believe I was the one who revealed Kelvin's smuggling operation!"

"Yes, and got us put in the wardrobe," Molly said. "We'd still be in there if it weren't for me!"

"Please," Sherlock snorted. "I would have found a way out…eventually."

"Not without getting shot," she countered. "My way got us out quietly and effectively, with time to spare to call the police." She beamed up at Sherlock. John, for his part, rocked back on his heels, grinning. Molly walked with a swing in her step reserved especially for when she outsmarted her husband.

"Oh just admit it," John shrugged.

They jogged up to the house just as Greg and the police were arresting Kelvin and his henchmen, guests stood outside, shivering and waiting to give their accounts of the evening.

"Well done," Lestrade said to Sherlock. "Been waiting to get this one for a while,"

"Hm," Sherlock was tapping out a text. One of the police handed Molly her wrap that was found inside the house, but she opted to keep the Belstaff.

"Why didn't you check in, by the way? Something go wrong? We were waiting on our end to hear from you."

"We got tied up," Sherlock answered.

"Well yeah, I figured, we found the passage in the wardrobe, how'd you figure that one out?"

"I didn't, Molly did," Sherlock said, and John noted there was some amount of pride in the consulting detective's voice.

"Good thing you did, the outer door was wired; if you tried the knob it would've blown the place up!" Greg said. The three stared back at him, shocked. John's phone rang, breaking the silence.

"Hello? Hi Mary, how are you?" he motioned to the phone against his ear, walking away from them. Sherlock saw his opportunity and bent, kissing Molly's cheek. She smiled, knowing it was his way of saying he was proud of her. He was already digging his phone back out of his pocket, tapping out a text.

"Are you hungry?"

"Famished," she replied. "Shall I make something when we get home?"

"Don't bother, we'll stop for something on the way."

"Fish and chips?"

"If you like."

"I do like," she said stoutly as she climbed into the cab. "I saved the day after all-"

"Helped-"

"-avoided certain destruction-"

"-Found a different door-"

"-and managed to look absolutely ravishing while doing so."

"You always look that way."

"What?

"What?" Sherlock only beamed at her before settling his arm over her shoulders, giving the address to the cabbie.


End file.
